


I'll write a symphony for the Departed

by sothisiswhatsnext



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: and here we are, i've been meaning to use this title for a while now, p.s. i know nothing about how orchestras work don't at me, post-campaign (mostly), this one goddamn song, this one song, very very vague 160 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sothisiswhatsnext/pseuds/sothisiswhatsnext
Summary: Aziza didn’t live in a moment.  She can’t be remembered on paper.And neither can anyone else, it turns out.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	I'll write a symphony for the Departed

**Author's Note:**

> Title from For the Departed, by Shafer James.  
> That damn song... It's so good for Wilde, but I couldn't get this line out of my head even after what I already wrote.

The pencil breaks in Hamid’s hand and he sighs, raking his hair out of his face.

He’s been drawing for hours now—to capture Aziza’s life and warmth on paper. He heard how she died a dozen times, trying to get it down, and when he couldn’t he just tried to draw her as he remembers.

All he has is a sheaf of scribbled lines and smudged charcoal.

Aziza didn’t live in a moment. She was always moving, humming or singing some tune. Her voice is what Hamid remembers before anything else. She can’t be remembered on paper.

But Hamid doesn’t know anything about composing music.

He sits with that thought for some time, mulling it over, until he remembers all the half-whispered tunes Wilde sung to draw magic out of the air.

It’s late, but he should still be awake.

\---

Wilde is working in his study when he hears a knock at the door and calls a quiet “come in.”

He’s not surprised to see Hamid slip through the door, but does raise an eyebrow at the charcoal-covered pages in his hands.

“I tried to draw her,” Hamid says, “but that’s not—that isn’t how she was. You know music, I thought you could…”

He trails off, and Wilde picks up the pieces.

“I’ll write a symphony,” he says with a tired half-smile. _When I have the time_ , he doesn’t add.

Hamid smiles, looking relieved, and turns to leave.

Wilde makes a note to buy some paper with staff lines.

\---

It becomes a pet project. A few notes here and there, writing stanzas and bars when he’s too tired to work but too strung out to sleep.

When he hears what happened in Rome, that he’s down a team, he pulls out four new pages covered in staffs and numbly titles each sheet.

When two of them return, a year and change later, he shoves those pages deep in a drawer, where one sits for Barnes. For Carter. For Zolf.

Those ones he only works on when he’s alone in the inn, and will be for days on end.

The pages scrawled _Grizzop_ and _Sasha_ stay in the pile of half-written music.

When Sasha’s letter arrives, he finally finds the ends to those pages. It’s a messy process, full of drafts and scratched-out measures, but he finds them.

When he hears what happened to Earhart, to her crew, he finally titles a page _Europe—the World_.

\---

Eventually, when there can be orchestras and opera houses again, Wilde takes the stage in mourning black and raises a conductor’s baton.

Aziza’s movement is full of life and ringing brass tones, the end discordant and jarring and cut short.

That’s the only nod Wilde makes to Bertie, the ignominious bastard.

Grizzop’s movement is all whistling woodwinds and trilling flutes scored as fast as anyone can play, a record of a life lived to the fullest. Wilde didn’t have much to go on for the end of the movement, but by some narrative instinct composed a five-part crescendo ending in a ringing note.

Sasha’s movement starts out awkward, quiet, a solitary violin, until it’s joined by more instruments—a trumpet, a bass, a tuba, eventually a flute and a set of traditional Kenyan drums. Each fades in turn, leaving the violin section, and then the same solo violin, much stronger now. Melancholic, but at peace, and looking to the future.

Europe, or, the World is the shortest: a fully orchestrated version of the violin melody from the end of _Sasha_ ; carried on the woodwinds and backed by the whole orchestra. It’s praised as the highlight of the symphony: slow and stately and grieving, with a soaring melody that inspires hope.

Hamid cries through the whole show.

As the last note fades from the air, Wilde turns to face the audience. He sweeps an elegant bow, in pin-drop silence. Tears glitter on every cheek in the bright stage lights.

And the room explodes in applause.


End file.
